And again, while he sat there, a landscape seemed to be about him.
On either side of a marshy path bare trees were standing, and their
limbs protruded confusedly and crookedly into the air. The light was
dim, as though it were a very early autumn morning. Heavy clouds hung
down, mirroring their ragged masses in pools and puddles. Here and
there were structures of brick, all half finished. One had no roof and
another no windows. Everywhere were mortar-pits full of white mortar,
and tools lay on the ground--trowels and spirit-levels and shovels
and spades; also barrows and beams. No human being was in sight. The
loneliness was damp and mouldy and ugly, and seemed to be waiting for
man. All objects shared that tense and menacing mood of expectancy--the
thin light falling from the ragged clouds, the marshy fluid in the
ruts, the trees which were like dead, gigantic insects thrown on their
backs, the unfinished brick structures, the mortar-pits and tools.
The only living creature was a crow sitting by the roadside, and
observing Christian with a spiteful glance. Each time he approached
the bird, it fluttered silently up and settled down a little distance
ahead on a bare tree; and there it waited until he approached again.
In the round eyes that glimmered brown as polished beans, there was a
devilish jeering, and Christian grew tired of the pursuit. The moisture
penetrated his garments, the mud filled his shoes, which stuck in the
ooze at every step; the uncanny twilight obliterated all outlines,
and deceived him in regard to the distances of objects. Exhausted,
he leaned against a low tree-trunk, and waited in his turn. The
crow hopped and flew, now farther, now nearer; it seemed vexed at
his waiting and finally alighted on the roadside, and the polished
bean-like eyes lost their treacherous expression and were slowly
extinguished.
A prophetic shiver passed through space. The breath of the landscape
was Ruth’s name; it strained to proclaim her fate.
And Christian waited.